Household Experiments
by medcat
Summary: A sketch about the danger (or, perhaps, the advantage?) of living under the same roof with an indefatigable experimentator. A story by Karasik.


**Translator's note:** I read this fic by Karasik on a Russian Harry Potter and multi-fandom fanworks site, snapetales . com. The author kindly granted me permission to translate to English and post. Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome!

* * *

Lately, John has been less tolerant than usual. He didn't think much about it himself-he simply decided that it was Sherlock who was more active in his experiments with the ultimate goal of finishing off his flatmate for good.

"Sherlock, enough is enough!" John, tired and annoyed, stumbled into the sitting-room, brandishing aloft a jar with croaking wart toads, as if the jar were the head of Medusa Gorgona. "How many times must I tell you: I don't want to have even a whiff of your experiments inside my bedroom!"

"Sherlock, I'm serious, that's enough! Has nobody taught you that a teapot, as its name indicates, is intended to be used for brewing tea, and not for sterilising scalpels inside it, and most likely, you have just used these scalpels for various unsavoury activities!"

"Sherlock, and what is _this_?! Don't tell me...Oh my God...what is this, a scalp? In our damn laundry basket?!"

"Sherlock, you are unbearable," John shaded his eyes with a weary gesture.

"I know," the detective responded imperturbably, continuing his work.

"But why, tell me-why-y-y?" the doctor drawled, trying not to lose his temper, realising as he said it, that to try to prove something to Sherlock Holmes is the most useless occupation in the world.

"Why what, John?" pretending that he didn't understand, Holmes answered a question with a question.

"All this," John poked his finger at the table, where many items of underwear lay, stacked in neat small piles. Most of the underwear was female. He was glad of that, at least.

"This," Sherlock circled the even rows with an expansive gesture, "is needed for my case."

"No doubt," John rubbed his forehead. "The dozen of swamp toads, which you dragged into the house a week ago were needed for a case too, and the ground squirrel embryos, which were here on Tuesday, and of course, that scalp, I don't even want to think from whom it was taken, that was here the day before-all these are extremely necessary and useful things to have in a household. At least once, you could bring in something edible, just for a change. Or at least something not as disgusting as all these body parts, toads, and all the other nasty things."

The detective only snorted in response, not looking up from his extremely interesting work, the meaning of which John could still not determine.  
Resigned, Watson shrugged his shoulders, exhaled, realising that, apparently, he wouldn't be able to eat at this particular kitchen table today either, just as usual, and headed to the sitting room to the good old telly, which, unlike Sherlock, could at least be switched off if one wished.

Next day, John entered the kitchen, intending to exile the experiments (or at least some of them) of his overly eccentric flatmate from the dining surface and to place on it instead the things that are supposed to be on the surface of the kitchen table. But somebody had beaten him to it.

On the table's surface, in proud rows, stood baggies and boxes, from which some definitely delicious smells emanated, which was suspicious in and of itself. John peeked into one-it contained a croissant, which looked rather normal at first glance: soft, and smelling of vanilla, cinnamon, and chocolate. John never considered himself to have a sweet tooth, but, given the unfortunate fact, that except the unidentified body parts and milk, there were no signs of any other organic matter inside their fridge at the moment, decided to yield to temptation and to indulge his appetite, which was unusually strong after a difficult work day, with what he had on hand. Watson extended his hand towards the next bag-it contained chocolate muffins, the next one-vanilla-chocolate biscuits. Curiouser and curiouser. Their kitchen table was covered with bags of sweets. And not one cut-off finger. The end of the world must have come, and John didn't even notice it.

"Sherlock!" John called, hoping to find the reason of the abundance of confectionery products in their kitchen, which was more used to poisons and chemicals, than to any foodstuffs.

Sherlock, as was his custom, replied only when John called him for the third time. He looked into the kitchen, not even trying to hide his annoyance because he was being called away from some important work, which demanded immediate attention this very moment (for example, studying and describing the 244th variety of tobacco ash.)

"Sherlock, what on earth is all this?" John nodded in the direction of a pile of containers on the table and as he waited for the answer, looked over at his flatmate almost accusingly.

"Oh, this," Sherlock waved away the question, obviously deciding that it didn't merit his precious attention, and already en route back to his unfinished work, remarked,  
"It's an experiment, John. Help yourself."

"Experiment" and "help yourself" in one sentence made the doctor feel a little uneasy.

"I hope they are not poisoned or something worse?" warily staring at Holmes's retreating back, Watson inquired.

"Of course not, John. Why would I want to poison you?"

In John's opinion, the last question was not quite rhetorical, which is why the doctor grew thoughtful.

"You yourself had asked me to bring, at least once, something more edible than swamp toads," echoed from somewhere in the adjacent room. "So there you are."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders, and, too hungry to think rationally, fell upon the unexpected treats.

Next day, in the exact same place, he discovered a mountain...no, simply an Everest of chocolate. A day later, there was a cake. And another day later, chocolate doughnuts.

John, busy formulating guesses, one of which being a thought that Holmes was feeding him up with some quite specific and most likely unpleasant for John goal in mind, went to the individual who caused all this.

"Sherlock, explain to me-what does all this mean?"

"What specifically, John?" Sherlock, as usual, didn't even bother looking up from the microscope. Apparently, whatever was happening there was far more interesting than real life.

"All this." John thrust a doughnut under Sherlock's nose. "Chocolate, candies, cake."

"Well, lately you've been somewhat more irritable than usual," the grimace on the detective's face gave one to understand that "somewhat" wasn't at all the word he would have preferred to use in this particular instance.

John, waiting for him to continue, naturally didn't think that in Sherlock's opinion, the explanation was already perfectly clear.

"Sherlock, you're at it again. What are you getting at?" although John couldn't help noticing that now he did feel much calmer than a week ago.

"It's been a month since you had a date," summed up Sherlock in such a tone of voice as if, if his previous remark didn't help to clear up the situation, than this one more than explained all the occurrences of life at 221B Baker Street.

"You are quite observant," John remarked acidly. "Especially considering the fact that your swamp toads, cut-off body parts in the fridge, and your wandering about the flat wearing only a sheet, or even worse, have scared away all my girlfriends."

"Everybody is free to base his conjectures on any data he wishes," grimaced Holmes, adjusting the knob on the microscope. "But it won't change the overall meaning: your irritability interfered with my experiments. Earlier, you didn't much mind having amphibians in your bedroom and..."

"What?! Sherlock, you've put them in there before, too?"

"Your room has ideal conditions for..."

"Oh no-no-no!" John interrupted him. "Don't even think about finishing this sentence, it's better if I remain in blissful ignorance. Explain this to me instead," and he again thrust the long-suffering, bitten into during the course of the conversation doughnut under Sherlock's nose.

"Endorphins, John," Sherlock finally looked in his direction and smiled exactly like a child: so innocent and beaming. John nearly dropped the doughnut: usually such a smile on the detective's lips didn't forecast anything good. "The hormones of happiness. Because of the absence of women and, in conjunction, the absence of sex, you've become more irritable than usual. Chocolate also stimulates the production of endorphins in the human body, which I demonstrated upon you, having performed a little experiment. The result speaks for itself-you have been looking much more...satisfied. But still, as it seems to me, sexual activity is able to much more effectively..."

"Good God, Sherlock!" John shuddered from the realisation of what other conclusion, on further consideration of this idea, the genius brain of his not quite sane friend and flatmate could draw.

"I very much hope that your experiments upon me will be limited to chocolate!"


End file.
